


Better Left Unsaid

by maiaran



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo and Thorin, Durincest, Dwarf Culture, Implied Sibling Incest, M/M, Mentions of possible Bagginshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiaran/pseuds/maiaran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things, Fili has come to find, are better left unsaid. But, perhaps one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> I've always really enjoyed the little things about people and when I don't know what to write, that's where my mind wanders to - usually late at night. If you see any typos please let me know. :)

 

Some things, he found, were often better left unsaid.

From an early age, Fíli had known it to be inescapably true; there were certain things that just didn’t need – or warrant – mentioning and though he’d often turned to the saying for his own gains – usually when he knew it’d get him in trouble to mention them –, as the years passed he’d found it’d continued to hold true and more often than not, it was little things.

They were personal things, like Ori’s constant humming when he penned a letter or the way Bilbo had a tendency to tug his waistcoat over and over and over when he was fretting. There was no reason to bring either of those things up, nor to mention Nori’s penchant for carrying combs in three or four pockets at a time and there _certainly_ wasn’t a need to even consider voicing thoughts Dwalin’s love of honey cakes that often found him nicking them from Bombur’s kitchens when the cook wasn’t looking – not if Fíli wanted to remain breathing or with a heartbeat, at least. And he’d never comment on Uncle’s need to remain no more than a single pace from his Hobbit when they were in the same room together much like he’d never, _ever_ bring up his mother’s love of exceptionally trashy novels.

Though, he would admit, that was in part because he didn’t want to have to listen to her lengthy, and quite intentionally torturous, reviews of them…

But, in much the same manner, he found that almost everyone had some little detail of their life that just spoke of _them_ – be it frivolous or of great import – that wasn’t meant to be brought up.

Kíli was no different.

It’d simply taken him a lot longer to really see it.

He’d first caught on in the weeks after they’d reclaimed Erebor. His brother’s chin had been looking a little darker, more filled out than it had at the start of their journey but when Fíli had gone to ask after it and offer his somewhat questionable congratulations, it’d been replaced by the same tatty tufts and little peeks of skin that seemed to have always been there.

_Dirt_ , he’d thought at the time. Kíli _had_ been in the back halls, after all, helping the miners from the Iron Hills remove rubble from some of the workmen’s chambers and the old Guild Halls. It’d made sense that he would be filthy and he didn’t envy his brother the job. There was no telling what, exactly, had ended up back there and Fíli wasn’t all that excited to find out, shameful or not.

But then it’d happened again and though Kíli had always been the one incapable of letting things go, Fíli found he hadn’t been spared the trait as he’d previously thought. The fullness had started to appear just along the line of Kíli’s jaw and then it’d vanished, this time leaving something eating away in the back of his mind he just couldn’t ignore.

Looking back, Fíli wondered where his head had been. The pair of them had been inseparable since Kíli’s birth. No one knew his brother better than he did and, any other day, he would have just asked.

There were no secrets between them, after all. There never had been.

Yet, at the time, with the niggling bite of worry and curiosity warring, it’d felt like, maybe, there was.

It’d nagged at him day and night, and when Fíli had finally had enough, he waited – somewhat impatiently (very impatiently) – for ‘the dirt-fuzz’, as he’d dubbed it, to return and then kept a careful eye out for his opening. He’d quietly followed when Kíli, as expected, tried to disappear, exiting through one of the back doors at the edge of the main hall one evening, after the meal had been cleared, and when Fíli’d found him in their quarters, shirt off with a slim-edged knife held up and scraping at the hair on his chin that he should have been excited to grow, he didn’t say anything.

He knew Kíli had seen him. He wasn’t going to deny it. But, later that night when they’d sat by the fire and Fíli watched him fidget, he brought up archery instead. He asked after fletching, if he needed new gloves and talked of how the practice arena needed a new set of range equipment.

Kíli’s embarrassment waned, quieting to a dull roar instead of the deafening tap-tap of his toes against the floor. His shoulders relaxed, his smiles becoming softer and, yet again, Fíli knew he’d made the right decision.

Because there was no need to bring it up – to further embarrass him or pick at something that might.

Admittedly, he would –silently – confess to being more than a little selfish with his actions. A small part of him was glad that, despite the traditions, Kíli had opted for something a little less… extravagant. He was rather fond of his own beard, yes, and quite proud of it too, but there was something about Kíli’s scruff that he couldn’t quite place.

It was softer, somehow. It made his smile wider, brighter and easier to enjoy when the tilt of his lips was so obvious. It was endearing, in a way, making him seem all too young one moment, yet very much an adult the next when the taut line of his jaw was visibly pulled with tension.

It wasn’t until the next evening, when the mattress had sunk beside him, the covers lifting to let in chilled air as Kíli crawled over to his side, that he put a name to it.

_Love_.

He didn’t know any better way of putting it – he loved the roughness, the feel of it rubbing against his cheek when Kíli pressed a kiss to it and the scratch against his shoulder when they’d settled in to sleep. It’d seemed silly at the time and it still did, if he were being honest with himself, but he didn’t mind so much when he got to reap the rewards. There were a lot of things about Kíli that he loved, after all, many of them strange on a good day, let alone on a bad one, and this, well… it would just go right along with the rest of the things filed away in his memories.

The ones that, someday, he fancied he might even share, just a whisper or two – though with who, he didn’t know; Bilbo, perhaps, as he had a feeling that, if anyone, it was likely their Hobbit that would understand. Fíli had seen the way he looked at Uncle, after all, even as they’re trekked across Middle-Earth, but especially now, all tenderness and care, and that was what Fíli wanted to convey.

It was those little things – the ones that were hardly ever spoken of aloud, never mentioned at the moment, but looked back on with fondness and a special warmth that bloomed in the very center of the chest. They lit up, not like the sharp explosion of fireworks, but like the slow burn of the hearth, leaving behind something far more precious than any treasure of the mountain.

That burn was meant to be savored and though he never got around to asking Bilbo outright, Fíli didn’t need to. Their Burglar understood, likely even better than he did that words, though wonderful in the right moments, with the right companions, with all the things they could accurately convey, weren’t always needed.

Some feelings had no proper descriptors beyond a smile or a laugh, no fitting comparison that could surpass the emotion in a touch, the warmth in a look or the sweet taste lingering after a kiss, and those things, Fíli believed, were much better told by being left unsaid.


End file.
